It was a Sunday afternoon in late June, which meant more tourists than usual on Hollywood Boulevard, and that meant it had been a long day for Spiderman and Spongebob Squarepants.

It wasn’t especially warm for midsummer, but being covered from head to toe in a cheap polyester bodysuit will raise the temperature even on a mild day.  Spongebob had more breathing room in his costume, but his homemade ensemble of a refrigerator box wrapped in a scavenged yellow blanket ensured any cool breeze would pass unnoticed.

A large, casually well-dressed Pakistani family with no young children approached Spiderman with cameras and Spongebob, an impossibly inconspicuous strolling monster with his massive block torso and maniacal, fixed expression, went on his way, waving a  farewell to his cartoon colleague.

The family gathered to pose around the dollar-store superhero, and he assumed an action stance – one of five in his repertoire.

“Make it seem as though he is rescuing you,” one of the two men holding cameras ordered the others in a clipped accent.  Spiderman straightened up, then re-assumed his position.  The second cameraman, an older relative, documented all of it with a compact video recorder.

“O.K., thank you,” the still photographer announced after a moment.  The group broke up and walked away from Spiderman without acknowledgement.

“Uh, I work on tips,” he called out meekly.  He pointed to an incongruous blue fanny pack he wore slung over his crotch.

“Give him a few bucks,” the still photographer said, waving them off as he occupied himself with some detail of his camera.  There was a hint of annoyance in the way the family rummaged through their purses; it was clear that the moment’s entertainment had been thoroughly exhausted, and they were eager to move on to whatever was next.  They appeared almost ruthless in their determination to wring every last drop of diversion from their vacation.

Spiderman accepted the few singles that were offered with an appreciative nod to each contributor.  He rolled up the bills tightly and opened the zipper of the pouch just enough to push the cigarette-sized deposit through the teeth, then zipped it closed.  Though his costume sagged noticeably in places, when he turned to leave, the cheap tailoring showcased a severe wedgie, providing and alarming definition to his rear.

He walked off, and a slump came into his posture as he began to slip out of character.  He was going home, but stayed in full costume despite the discomfort; another tourist family could appear on the way, and that might lead to another photo opportunity.  It would mean a later subway home, but it would also mean another couple of dollars.

Walking east on Hollywood Boulevard, his departure seemed somehow less than heroic.

*          *          *

The intersection of Hollywood and Highland re-established itself daily as a poor showcase for urban youth at its best and brightest.

Not that anyone comes off particularly well at a bus stop.  Though the law of averages suggests public transportation would have at least its share of unexpected nobility, optimism is a poor substitute for experience.  Every day, lurching buses carried frail old women clutching handrails for dear life while young and able-bodied men sat comfortably and distracted themselves from the people around them.

Near the sign listing the several buses that ran the Hollywood route, a young black girl with hair braided tightly to her head yelled across the wide street at a shattering volume.

Bran-DON!  BRANNNNNDON!!!

Across the street, three kids about her age craned their necks to the source of the shouting.  Two wore oversized sports jerseys and the third wore a dark polo shirt with the insignia of one of the fast-food cafes on the Boulevard.   All three waved back at her.

Get back to WORK, Brandon!  BRAN-DON!  Get back to WORK!

A small crowd of the girl’s friends gathered around her, and she led them in a sudden, spontaneous, unexpectedly synchronized dance-and-chant choreography, like some forgotten breakdance musical from the early 80s.

“A!  B!  C!  D-E-F-G-H!” 

Weaving in and out of each other, they bobbed and popped and threw arms like some gangsta drumline stepshow. 

“I-J-K-L!  M!  N!  O!  P!” 

Letters were fired off with flawless coordination and a military precision, perfectly appropriate for this twenty-six gun salute to good phonics.

“Q-R-S!  T-U-V!”

The strangely compelling, almost surreal quality of the performance overwhelmed even the most elementary curiosity as to what could have led to the creation of such a routine in the first place.

“W!  X!  Y!  Z!  We the ALPHABET Gang!”

Both hi- and lo-fiving, the group was vocal in its agreement as the young girl took to her place in front of her friends and folded her arms in a gesture of finality.

“A-B-C, nigguh!”

copyright,  © 2006 Wyatt Doyle

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